


Angel in my Ear

by HighQueen



Category: James Bond (Movies)
Genre: I'm Sorry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:57:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighQueen/pseuds/HighQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very short. It just came to me. I'm so sorry in advance. </p><p>“Guess it’s not so bad,” James whispered even knowing his voice would carry to everyone in the office. “There’s worse ways going out than with an angel in my ear.”<br/>The office was so quite no one could pretend they didn’t hear the gasp that was caught between a sob and a chuckle that escaped Q’s lips.<br/>“Sing me one last song?” Bond asked, praying desperately that he wasn’t pleading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel in my Ear

     “What are my options, Q?” 007 asked, trying to keep his voice level even as a gurgle came unbidden between his lips. Damned blood.  
     All of the minions were listening in, ready to do anything to pull him out of the situation at hand. But all of them knew…. He wasn’t pulling out of this one. They watched him fall. They watched him fall seven stories (the number wasn’t lost on any of them) from the safety of their office and there was nothing they can do for their agent. All of the minions had cut looks towards Q, sitting calmly in his chair, hands ominously silent and still. Instead of typing on his keyboard, those delicate hands were steepled in front of his face, as if warding him from the view of 007 crumpled on the concrete, bones bent at impossible angles. His face was unreadable as he monitored the agent’s vitals upon one of his multitude of screens. They were projecting what he already knew.  
     Voice flat, unwavering, Q finally spoke, “Capsule or bullet. You have one of each.”  
     A gurgling laugh. “Only you would count my shots. Bloody brilliant.”  
     “Mmm,” It was the only syllable Q could think to pronounce. He refused to waver. Bond had known he would never break his professionalism over the death of an agent—it was one of the reasons Bond had loved… loves… him so much—his dedication to his job and the task at hand. But, God, that voice.  
     “Guess it’s not so bad,” James whispered even knowing his voice would carry to everyone in the office. “There’s worse ways going out than with an angel in my ear.”  
     The office was so quite no one could pretend they didn’t hear the gasp that was caught between a sob and a chuckle that escaped Q’s lips.  
     “Sing me one last song?” Bond asked, praying desperately that he wasn’t pleading.  
The silence on the other end of the radio was interrupted by Q’s voice as he sung something. Something French. It reminded Bond of home. Of his home with Q. He was sure Q had sung it before, but it hurts. Hurt so god damned much he couldn’t place where. Instead, he resolutely wiggled his molar with his tongue. It was time. There was no escaping this one. The burning in his lungs and the multitude of broken bones told him as much. He could see them clearly laid out before him, his own heap of a body. But he couldn’t even feel anything below his chest.  
     When Q finished, he sighed around the capsule and his own blood. “Think that one was your best performance.” He didn’t even know why he was striving for light-heartedness. Except that it feels right, natural, even as he was about to die.  
      Q grunted, “I just knew I was saving it for something special.” Radio silence, and then. “Goodbye, James.”  
     “I’m so sorry, Q.” He coughed as the blood overwhelmed his mouth. “007 signing off.” He bit into the capsule.  
     The last words he thought he heard: “See you soon.”

**~**~**

     The office was eerily quiet after the agent’s passing—as if it hadn’t happen before. However, this time was different. They had CCTV cameras and a splintered body as proof. Everyone stood, resolutely staring into the distance. Resolutely not watching their Quartermaster, out of respect. Until suddenly, clacking. Q’s fingers had begun again. He didn’t look up from his screens, but gave orders none the less.  
      He was on the comm’s with other agent’s, “007 is deceased.” He rattled off an address. “Bring him…. Bring the body home. His loved ones will want a proper burial.” He’s voice remained unshaken, as if he hadn’t just bared his soul in front of everyone. As if he hadn’t just lost the only person he had ever loved. And still, he shouldered on.  
      Once he caught one of the minion’s eyes, he began making demands. Giving orders. Being Q. “I need all of the feed before The Fall.” Everyone could hear the quiet emphasis in his posh no-nonsense tones. “Identify the man who made The Push. Hack into the CIA and Interpol if you have to. I want his name on my desk in an hour. Evacuate all civilians in a 10 block radius. I want the place shut down.” His eyes gleamed dangerously, but no one questioned him. No one had the heart. And if no one was moving yet, it was because of their own broken morale, not because of the broken man that sat in his swivel chair as if it were a throne.  
     “Candidate files,” Q continued without hesitation. “Candidate files need to be reviewed for the new…. New agent. I want them sitting across from me at 1000 hours Monday.”  
     His fingers were manic as he pushed a comm button to be in contact with the field agents again. “Don’t forget the damned chip. The one on his… in the shoulder. The prototype proved immensely useful at graphing vitals. Desk. 3 hours.”  
     And then suddenly, “Bloody hell, where is my…” A small, unassuming woman pulled herself from the wall—the first to move since Q had begun his monologue. She shoved the scrabble cup full of steaming tea in his hands. “Ah…” Q deflated, as if he couldn’t even bear the weight of the mug but clung to it all the same. “I believe you’ve earned a raise, Margaret. No one else in this office is half as bloody competent.” He pointedly glared daggers at the crowd before him as he took a long, obnoxious sip—the crowd that still hadn’t begun to move.  
     The world came crashing down. Everyone began their duties, as if they hadn’t seen the pain, the sheer loss, in their boss’s eyes. As if they hadn’t just heard, moments ago, the equivalent of a love confession drip off his lips in French—even those who did not speak it understood a lovely lullaby when they heard it. As if they hadn’t tasted the dread in their back of their throats when Q had basically told Bond he would be joined… shortly.  
     None of their fears eased, even after Q had taken the file handed to him an hour later—a file with a name, and an organization. None of those fears eased when, with a few competent swipes of Q’s fingers resulted in the explosion of the building (and the surrounding buildings, but who was counting) Bond had been pushed from—a fiery memorial. (Although maybe, just maybe, there was a sigh of relief when all the agents in charge of retrieving Bond’s body all called in, assigned for.)  
     None of the fears eased when, 2 days later, Q could not be accounted for and yet twenty separate terrorist-related (and Bond- death- related) locations were burned to the ground. (But perhaps there was also admiration for a job well done and a vengeance well planned).  
     And when Q came back the next day, body battered, panda-eyed, hair destroyed, jumper singed, the fear definitely did not decrease. In fact, it only increased after Q came back out of his office, hair combed back, face clear, as he straightened the knot of his black tie with his thin, deceptively innocent fingers.  
     Everyone stood, silent, waiting.  
     “Funeral is at 7. I expect tuxedos and cocktail dresses. God knows he would,” Q announced with a quirk of his lips.

And then everyone just learned to live with the fear.


End file.
